


Friends Will Be Friends Will Be Friends

by 1f_this_be_madness



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Affection, Apologising, Band Fic, Band is family for Freddie, Banter abounds, Because Brian's dad passes away, Because they're a family and they adore each other, Best Friends, Blood and Injury, Brian May doesn't know what's going on but he's into it, Brian May is a prince among men and I love him so much, Brian is a sweetheart, Brian is the house-husband of the band because why not?, Brian referring to Roger as 'Rogie' irl will never not be sweet to me, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deacy and Brian are mother hens, Deacy is adorable and quiet, Declarations Of Love, Depression, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Family Issues, Family Loss, Family Member Death, Fights, Freddie Mercury has the biggest heart in the world, Freddie gets clumsy when he's upset, Freddie is a fashion icon, Freddie is a lonely soul, Freddie is flamboyant of course, Freddie wraps himself around people like a koala, Friends forever to the end and back, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hospitals, Hugs, I am so sorry for doing this, I know practically nothing about 70's medical practises so please excuse me, I'm so incredibly invested now it isn't even funny, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Interviews, John Deacon has the driest sense of humour and it's beautiful, John sweats when he's nervous, Live Aid happens and shit gets crazy, Loneliness, Men Crying, Most of the time, One Shot Collection, Origin Story, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Kissing, References to Illness, Rock Stars, Rock and Roll, Rock stars are temperamental creatures, Roger Taylor gets intensely protective of his boys, Roger Taylor looks fabulous in makeup, Roger is a good listener, Roger is a spitfire and Brian is the reasonable one, Roger is dramatic, Roger is insecure and sometimes bitchy but we love him, Roger is strong, Shock, Sleepy Deacy, Smoking, So much swearing in the last chapter, Some angst, Swearing, The boys give each other nicknames, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, When he stops talking for long enough, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-18 07:09:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18115826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1f_this_be_madness/pseuds/1f_this_be_madness
Summary: Brian and Roger are a little hesitant. Tim had told them his mate Farrokh was pretty cool; oh and don't call him Farrokh, call him Freddie, and by the way he has got an absolutely BRILLIANT voice.But then Tim runs off to join another band, and now Freddie has inserted himself into theirs. Which is fine, but he wants to give them a new name. A ridiculous name. The most outlandish one anyone could have possibly come up with, and neither of them are entirely happy with it.But ah, well. What have they got to lose?(Or, a story written as a series of one-shots based on the article in LIFE Magazine explaining how Queen got together and became, well,QUEEN.)This piece includes some swearing, references to drinking, and recreational drug use. There are also references to depression and death. It is listed for General Audiences, but I felt this information was necessary to read responsibly.





	1. Intro

"Well, now we're in a band together," The lean guitarist said, tapping his thumb on his old lady, the Red Special, who is something even now. She catches people's eyes even though they haven't performed in many gigs. Yet.

"I told you if I was your lead singer, you'd see what I can do," The dark-haired singer retorted with a cocksure grin. "So. How about Queen? As our name."

" _Queen?_ " the drummer, exhaling a ring of smoke from his mouth in almost a cough as he sat upright behind his drum kit and lifted his cig away from pursed lips, sputtered. "Are you putting us on? You've _got_ to be joking."

"No," Farrokh Bulsara said now with a smile, his eyes sparkling as he lifted his hand from the mic stand he had been holding. "It's outrageous, and it can mean whatever the world wants it to mean."

Roger cocked his head, putting down his drumsticks and roughing up his long hair. "What d'ya think, Bri?" He defers to the third member, the first who'd spoken; better to shove off the negative response if he could. Roger doesn't want to blow his top, not yet. Too early in the acquaintance of certain members in this particular band.

"Come on, Brian," Farrokh encouraged. Wheedled, more like. He pins his large-toothed smile on the other. He had told them both to call him Freddie; it was easier, and he had gotten used to it over the years. It was what everyone at prep school called him. Brian almost immediately shortened it to Fred, which he liked; seemed familiar, friendly. Turning his charm fully on Brian now, he adds "You're the clever one, darling. What do you say to the name?"

Brian May, black curls a-tangle, blows air out of both cheeks and flicks his eyes at Roger, who pointedly widens his eyes and shrugs. "Well, you're certainly passionate enough about it, Fred," he shifts his knee to let his guitar rest more comfortably above it and lifts one open hand. "So why not?"

" _I_ don't like it," Roger informed, scowling as he stood up. Leave it to Brian to be the middle man, the peace keeper. Tosser. Throw him out to be the cantankerous one. May be seen as downright contrary. The drummer snatches up and spins his sticks end over end, as though they are batons, attempting to dispel his flash of anger.

"Alright, we can put a pin in that," Freddie returns easily, turning around with hands now thrust into the pockets of his fringed jacket, elbows sticking out and the toes of one foot pointed. "And if you still don't like it in a month's time, well... You'll just have to deal with it, darling."

Brian's brows shoot up and Roger leans forward in a fighting stance, but as Freddie's face breaks into a smile and then laughter, the blond drummer laughs too.

"...He certainly has confidence," Brian leans over to Roger and murmurs. Fingers resting amongst his curls, the guitarist shrugs. "Why not humour him?"

Roger opens up his mouth to say _because it's stupid, ridiculous; he only just joined the band and he's trying to make decisions for us_ , and then looks over at Freddie, who had casually waltzed away from them, allowing them space to talk, and in order to lovingly trail his fingers across the keys of an old piano standing in the corner of their current echoey, drafty practise room. Pure exultation lit up his long face, lifting his prominent cheekbones and curling those large lips and teeth into the most artless, innocent smile; and the drummer cannot bring himself to argue against the new name any more. "... I'll get used to it, I reckon," he mutters.

Brian nods at him. "Atta boy, Rog." He clasps the other's shoulder as he stands and raises his voice. "Now all we need is a Queen-worthy bass player."

***

"Auditions?" Roger suggested later. "'S how you got me."

"Sure," Brian agreed. "Fred just made his own luck and got himself in."

"Forced us to try him out, more like," Roger added.

"You adore me, darling, admit it!" From the adjoining room, Freddie crowed. The drummer ducked his head and smiled.

The three paste up flyers around school and pull in several guys. Some can't keep time, or are put off by the band's perfectionism; others cannot get comfortable with Freddie's bombastic gyrating movements around stage and right up on TOP of them, and so they are out.

Then comes this pasty boy. Pale face, round-tipped nose, long brown hair. Longer than all of theirs put together.

"What's your name?"

"John Deacon."

"How old are you?"

"19."

"You go to Uni?"

"Yep."

And that's it. That is all he says to them.

Brian shrugs at Roger and Freddie says "Well dear, let's see if you can play," and he goes right into a piano number, heart and soul, with Roger coming in on drums; stacatto, kicking. Brian peals in with his guitar and John still says nothing, but he is ON, does not miss a single beat -- not even when Brian bursts out with a complicated riff to test him.

"I saw you play," the bass player says after they all stop, out of breath and enthralled. They had been _cooking_.

"What?" Roger raps out. 

"I saw you play," Deacon repeats. He's got a southern brogue they can hear now that he's said more than two words together. "You didn't make much of an impression on me, though." He scrunches up his forehead and looks pointedly down at the bass in his hands. "...and now I know why."

Silence, and then Brian lets out a guffaw. Freddie looks at the others with a smile. "He's as arrogant as I am!"

Looking from Freddie to Roger, who nods emphatically, Brian slaps his palms together and then holds them out, blurting "Well, John, you're hired. That is, if you want the job."

John pans his eyes around at the three men who had taken a chance on him. His eyes brighten and the corner of his mouth lifts. "Sure," he says, hands going into his jean-jacket pockets as he lifts his shoulders. "I mean, why not?"

"Yes!" Roger pumps his fist and grins. 

Brian bobs his head and smiles, and Freddie says "...That will be our standard," he raises himself onto his toes as if about to dance. Brian lifts an eyebrow, Roger widens his eyes, and John waits with that half-smile flickering over his face, elusive; an expression the others will come to recognise intuitively, along with his sideways glances and wrinkled forehead. "Whenever the option arises for us to try something new," Freddie continues, his dark eyes burning with hunger, need, rampant desire, verve. "Whenever opportunities come knocking, Queen shall always say, 'why not?'"

Roger grins, Brian puts both of his hands on Freddie's shoulders and rubs them affectionately, and John locks eyes with the passionate singer and nods.

"Amen, Fred," Brian intones.

John and Roger add together, "Amen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Red Special = Brian's guitar, the one he made at the age of fourteen with his father out of bits and pieces, including his mother's knitting needles and an old mahogany fireplace! He says that his was a poor family, so they could not afford to buy him a guitar, and therefore he made his own. Apparently Brian calls her "the Old Lady" and still performs with her to this day
> 
> *Uni = short for University; in this case, Imperial College
> 
> *southern brogue = an accent from southern England. I've been informed John Deacon is from Leicestershire, which is more likely to be described as the midlands. At any rate, his voice sounds very different from a 'posh' London accent like Freddie's, for example


	2. Make-up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys experience Freddie's fashion sense and experiment with makeup

In a wood-panelled room at Imperial College, one of the most influential bands began. No one could know what they would become, but even after signing on John Deacon and going out for drinks to celebrate their beginning that same afternoon, the four men know -- somehow they can all tell -- that this is going to be something special.

And so...

***

"We have simply _got_ to look spectacular onstage," Freddie said some weeks later. He has taken to finding clothes cheaply in Kensington; clothing articles that almost anybody else would consider garish or tacky, he eagerly snatches up and tosses out: "With a little bit of white satin this'll look lovely."

No one in the band could ever forget the first time he strutted into their rehearsal room wearing tights. Brian was lost for words.

"Oh, my," John breathed. "That's...quite eye-catching, Freddie."

"Isn't it?" Freddie twirled. "I think I look quite dashing, don't you?"

"- Roger?" Brian asks faintly.

The blond drummer stalks right up to Freddie, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. One might expect a rebuke, but "You look amazing, Fred," he uttered. "Amazing. I could get a ruff to sew on the bottom --"

"Taffeta, darling!" Freddie cries with a wink and a grin.

Brian and John glance at one another. "...I have a pair of bright red pants I can wear," John offers.

"And ruffly tights would certainly pop with footwear like go-go boots," Brian adds as he finally finds his voice.

Freddie clasps his hands. "What exceptional ideas! Look at this, then -" out of the bag he had withdrawn his tights from, the singer now extricates a shimmering silver leotard. It sparkles in the light from one of the windows.

"A leotard. Wow," Roger whistles. "I didn't realise those came in men's sizes."

"Tad understated, don't you think, Freddie?" John inquires dryly. Brian smiles. 

"Not once we add one more thing," Freddie intones, withdrawing two bottles of nail polish - one white and one black. He holds them out with arms extended and eyebrows up, lips pursed in a held-back smile that could easily slip away if no one is onboard. 

But Roger shrugs and Brian picks up the bottle of white polish, unscrewing its lid and taking a whiff. He wrinkles his nose and then with a significant tone, vocalises "Why not?" Before curling his fingers and using the included brush to paint each nail carefully, his tongue sticking out with the effort.

Freddie pivots with the black polish held out to the others. John shuffles his feet and says "Um, you might have to put it on for me, but I'll wear the black."

Freddie flashes his teeth in a warm smile. "Splendid --then I shall wear black too." John stands in front of him and Freddie bends his head to the task, opening the polish and painting the bassist's nails with his own hands deft and steady. 

Freddie blows softly to dry the polish and Roger throws up his hands. "I suppose I'm not to get any polish, then?"

"... You're al _ready_ polished enough, darling," Freddie croons. Roger looks away as his cheeks flush because of the obvious compliment. 

Brian, curiosity now piqued, peers into the singer's bag and starts to smirk. "I dunno, Fred, I think Roger could do with a bit'a THIS." He holds up something that looks like a long tube of lipstick, or possibly a pen. 

Roger snatches it. "Mascara?" He bursts out incredulously. Both Brian and John have started laughing.

"Only if you can handle it," Freddie pipes up. "I was planning on unveiling that next time." He had not wanted to overwhelm the others with everything. He knows his fashion choices can be a bit...daunting for some. 

Roger, however, smacks his lips and lifts his index finger. "No, you know what? I can totally handle this." He unscrews the top and coats the bristles of the conical brush. "I can even do it on my own." And to the shock and awe of everyone, besides Fred with his knowing smile, Roger Taylor raises his gaze and applies mascara onto his lashes with a dainty, practised hand. After completing the process, the drummer smugly flutters his eyelashes at his bandmates. Brian gives him a once-over and nods. He hands over the white nail polish as John asks to try the mascara and promptly pokes himself in the eye with it.

"Ow! Bugger this bloody--!" 

Roger takes the mascara back and Brian swiftly jogs to the nearest bathroom and wets a wash cloth, which Freddie takes from him upon his return and gently presses it to the skin around Deacon's eye. "You'll likely be needing a hand with this next time, Deacy." And then as John appears crestfallen, "Don't worry, dear, I jabbed myself my first time too."

"I've got you for the next round, mate," Roger offers, cinching the container tight shut again for now.

"...Okay," John says agreeably, but with the redness of his now-bleary eye he looks pitiful. "At least my fingernails are presentable," he adds. 

Brian ruffles John's hair and Freddie clicks his tongue against his teeth, dipping his head with an elaborate flourish. "But of course they are!"

John chuckles at the theatrics. "Yes, and thank you, Freddie." 

The other touches his hand to Deacon's cheek warmly. John can tell how happy Freddie is that his ideas have been accepted, no, embraced by the band. John too is excited. He has never met a group of men like this, and feels daring. There is no telling what the four of them might do.


	3. Studio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First time in a recording studio, things can get a little tense...
> 
> Swearing and an injury occurs in this chapter, just so readers are forewarned.

Twenty-four available tracks instead of four. You would think that would be quite enough to make music without a fight breaking out over production. 

But if you DO think so, you would be wrong. If a band takes three years during a studio's off-time to record their first album, and are a quartet of perfectionists to boot, there are going to be some arguments, broken instruments... Even broken faces, or hearts.

***

"I'm telling you it's not strong enough, Brian. That one harmony you had --it didn't work. We've got to record it over."

"Oh really? You want to run through another tape just for that one harmony? The one that I _added_ precisely for the application of your bass line, John! Is that what you're saying?"

"No," John closes his eyes. They have been in here working for eleven hours straight and could all use a break, food, and sleep. Actually "...Yes. It's off, okay? Just that bit." He tries to be conciliatory.

It doesn't work. "THAT bit?!" Brian thunders.

"Whoa, and here I thought _I_ would be the first one of us to go mad," Roger loudly whispers to Freddie as he sits on the small couch, the singer leaning half in the drummer's lap and half on the sofa's right arm.

"Oh, shut up," Brian snapped. "You'll be next, Roger, wanting some different lyric."

"I adore you all, but can we just take a few deep breaths and smile?" Freddie asks. John glances over with a satirical eye and a tired smile forming, and is promptly hit in the face with a swinging boom mic. Brian had sharply shoved it as he went to start on the new tape, breaths coming hard as he tries to control his temper.

And then,

"Bloody hell!" Roger yells as Deacy is thrown backwards by the force of the microphone on its swing. He flips onto the couch over Roger's drum set and practically into the drummer's lap. Pushing John's hair back from his forehead, Roger shakes the bassist.

Brian comes over, eyes horrified and temper totally cooled. "Roger, is he all right?"

"I dunno, that mic gave him a right fast, hard wallop." Roger lays the bassist flat across his lap and gives him a couple of brisk pats. "Johnny, hey. Deacy, you alright?"

John groaned and lifted his head up, revealing a spectacularly busted lip and blood smearing across his mouth and chin, dripping everywhere.

"Ooh. Get some ice--"

"A towel or water, something--"

"Forget water, darlings, he requires vodka!" Freddie had brought some for his own consumption, said it gave the vocal cords a good jolt, and now pours John a glass. "Do drink it all, dear."

John does, and coughs, and Roger squeals as blood spatters but it is immediately blotted away by Freddie's neck towel. "Preparation, Roger," the singer tells the astounded drummer as he hands John the cloth to blot his features clean. "Now how's the face?"

"Let me have a look," Brian tries to take ahold of Deacon's chin but the other shoves him away.

"Geroff, Brian, 'M fine."

"You're _not_ , you're bleeding, and--stop moving, John, this is my fault, for fucks' sake!" He shouts the last and everyone stares. Here is Brian, soft-spoken, peacekeeper Brian, who is not only screeching but has tears in his eyes. John is stock-still now, but obediently lowers the towel a little, its ivory-hued terrycloth carmine-bright with spots of blood. Brian pats at John's shoulder, not quite looking at the gore directly. "...You were right about the harmony, I was flat on it, I just didn't want to redo the tape." He peers closely at John's lip now, touching its outer edge and making the bassist hiss as it moves and more blood oozes out, but-- "Looks like your lip is split, nothing else. But the dentist ought to have a look at your teeth." He moves aside and beckons to Roger.

"That's your cue," Freddie smiles. "Our lovely family dentist."

"Ha ha, you're both hilarious," Roger grumbles, but he slides over to check the state of John's mouth anyway. "... You've got shite teeth," is his report, "but they're no different than they've been in all the time I've known you."

John quirks his brows and rolls his eyes as Brian sighs deeply and hits Roger in the arm.

"Ow!"

"Don't do that to me," the guitarist grits out.

Roger looks up, all innocence. "What?"

"Preface it like that, putting us on. I don't have good enough insurance to help Deacy fix his teeth if I'd massacred them."

"Don't worry, Bri, you just massacred the track," John says drily. He takes the towel away from his face and winces. "And I've done in this towel, yow. I'm sorry, Freddie."

Taking the cloth daintily between the tips of his fingers, Freddie says "It's called a deep clean, darling. Don't worry, she'll come out of the wash as right as rain."

Which is precisely when a Trident employee taps on the door and then pokes his head in. "It's seven-fifteen, guys. We need the studio." He does a double-take at the sight of John's no longer bleeding but now swollen lip and Freddie's beaming smile as Brian hovers worriedly in the background. Roger just looks bored. 

"Ah! Well breakfast is at my place today," Freddie rubs his hands together as the studio man backs out mumbling something about temperamental incomprehensible rock stars. "Are you coming?"

"You know I'm there," enthuses Roger, leaping out of the couch as John slides out of his way. "I'm bloody _starving!_ "

"Good, then you can stomach my food," the singer grinned. "Deacy, Brian?"

The two glance at one another and then John nods. "Okay."

"I'll be there if you want me, Fred," Brian's tone is contrite, lean features troubled. He has always been on the sensitive side, Bri. Gets emotional after something done, and the others always wait for him to talk it out because he always will.

The four bandmates gather up their instruments and roll up the used tapes. Brian stares extra-long at the last of them. "Listen, John--" he starts to say. The bassist walks over to him. 

Roger sighs. Here it comes.

"--I shouldn't've snapped at you," the guitarist continues. "'Specially when you were right about reworking that harmony. I could've really hurt you, swinging that mic. And for that--"

John dabs at his lip and shakes his head. "Brian, stop. It's okay to get heated. We both want what is best for the band." He stops for a moment. This is a long speech for John. "I shouldn't have demanded for a retape the way I did, so. We're even, and I'm fine. Really. You're forgiven, at least if you'll forgive me."

Brian looks at John gratefully and smiles in pleased relief. Deacy is a good lad. "Of, of course I forgive you." He says.

They shake hands, and then because Brian still looks pretty and pitiful and sorry, John tells him "Bring it in," and opens his arms for a hug. The guitarist obliges after a hesitant instant, bowing his curly dark head over John's wavy lighter hair.

"Hey, we gotta get in on this too," says Roger, and the hug is expanded to include all four.

"Well. Now that we're done being little girls," Freddie teases with an arched brow and a flourish as he opens the door, "Who's dying for sustenance? We must keep ourselves alive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trident employee = the name of the studio where Queen was allowed to record its first album, was Trident. 
> 
> The band actually recorded during the off-hours so yes, working through the night was probably a constant. Poor guys


	4. Show

Gigs are the best things about being rock stars. And the best thing about any show is its audience - at least, that's what Queen discovers.

It is after their first two albums land that things start really taking off; and Freddie's antics only get wilder when onstage versus during practises. His energy is infectious, both to his bandmates and the fans. 

One of his first-ever quirks that subsequently happened everywhere was the dismantling of his microphone stand. "I move with the music, darling, and the sound has to move with me," he said-- and pulled the mic's rod right out of its stand. 

Gyrating, rolling his shoulders and swinging the metal rods back and forth works for him...until it doesn't.

Freddie has mastered switching the mic to his opposite hand when leaning up against or dancing with Brian and John, and Roger is spared by his drum kit, but when the singer plays fast-and-loose too close to his own limbs, well.

***

It is during the latter part of one set, during 'Keep Yourself Alive', a song that Brian had schooled Freddie carefully in-- "Don't transpose the lyrics," he warned "or the words won't make sense."

Freddie rocks it, but his mic stand hadn't come up cleanly, and at _"Give me everything I need to feed my body and my soul, and I'll grow a little bigger -- Maybe that can be my goal --ah--"_ he bent forward and swept the mic on its rod between his legs. The ragged metal catches on the inside of his right calf and slices through the cloth of his tights. 

Freddie went to one knee and Brian frowned over at him, eyes catching John's as the singer stayed down for a solid fifteen seconds. And then when he comes up again, his inner leg is not white but red; the bright colour is spreading from the centre of his calf down to his foot. 

Brian doesn't hesitate; he had been wearing a harlequin jacket with bright argyle markings and a long scarf. Going to one knee, fingers still flying across the strings of his guitar, he ducks his head and grips the cloth of the scarf in his teeth. 

Roger raises his head and keeps the drums kicking even as he grows worried in response to the shocked and worried, some mildly disgusted, faces in the front row. And in a feat of pure improvisation, Deacy slides on his knees across the stage to stop in front of Freddie, giving Brian the time and chance to wrap his scarf around their front man's leg and tuck in its ends to make a bandage that is not too tight but will sop up most of the blood. 

And Freddie keeps on singing, Brian explodes back to his feet, and the crowd roars in excitement and approval as the band harmonize together during the second chorus.

Whistles and cheers continue throughout the set, which is not stopped. "Let's give these beautiful people what they came for," Freddie said during a break. "I'm fine," 

He shakes his head as Brian says "But Fred, your leg--"

"I won't lose all my blood before the end of the set," the singer assured. "You tie quite a good knot. And _you_ , dearest Deacy," turning his blinding smile onto the bass player "With that magnificent slide! We'll make a proper showman of you yet."

John smiles, but his eyes remain concerned. 

"Right. Let's get back out there," says Roger.

"Okay," Brian sighs heavily and then skewers Freddie with a stern gaze. "But the INSTANT you have pain or can't stand, we stop. Got it?"

"Yes dear," Freddie returns, patting the guitarist's face. "Hey hey hey hey hey!!!" He calls to the audience, running right back out to continue their show. 

John and Brian exchange rueful glances as Roger bounces in place and clenches his jaw. "We'll watch out for him," he tells them both as he goes back to his drums.

"We had better," Brian adds as he goes out too. Deacy says nothing but pats Brian reassuringly on the shoulder.

"How are you beautiful people keeping yourselves alive tonight?!" Freddie calls, receiving a tumultuous roar of appreciation in response as he shakes his wounded leg: "...some of us are doing so better than others, but we're all still here!"

Brian and Roger glance at one another, in awe of the audience's response to Freddie. "They love him," Brian breathes.

"Wouldn't you?" Roger returns as he starts in on the beat of their next song.

***

After the show's conclusion, Queen receives a sustained standing ovation and all of the boys wave, pump their fists, and grin. 

Freddie cannot enjoy all of it, as his blood loss has taken its toll. He is pale and slouches heavily into the drummer as Roger puts an arm around him for their bow. Without making a big to-do, Roger holds Freddie upright and helps him turn to exit the stage as the singer calls "Thank you, we love you!"

"We love you, Freddie!" Screams someone, or several someones, in return. "Hi, Roger!!" Emanates a squeal. The drummer shoots a saucy wink in that particular direction.

"Goodnight!!" Brian puts his fist in the air.

"Alright, we're getting you to the hospital," the guitarist says the second after Roger holds Freddie to get him down the steps behind the stage. "No argument, Fred," he adds as the singer opens his mouth to protest. "Deacy, can you get the van? I'll pack your bass for you."

"Yep, yeah." John leaps to it as Brian hands the keys to him and quickly puts his guitar and Deacy's bass in their cases. 

"Roger--"

"Got it." The drummer carefully, his hands and tone gentle, lowers Freddie to sit on the step. "I'll be right back, Fred, and we'll get you some help. Get stitched up, yeah?"

Freddie's eyes rise blurrily. "I'm _fine_ , Roger, ish - it's just a little cut,"

"A little cut that could get infected," Brian kneels before the singer and looks into his face. He puts his palm to Freddie's pale cheek and keeps it there until footsteps come skidding back up to both of them. 

A horn honks and John is bringing their van to a skidding stop on top of the curb. "Alright mate. Up you get. Heeere we go." Brian ducks, pulls Freddie's arm across his shoulders, and hauls him to his feet as Roger hands John all of their instruments before ducking under the singer's other arm and picking him up with Brian's help to carefully seat him inside the vehicle.

"Move, move, move!" Roger yells as into a nearby hospital they have come, parked the van terribly (and haphazardly) across two parking spaces but who cares now --it can't be helped. John goes ahead of his three friends to hold the door open for them, and Roger and Brian have linked their hands to form a chair for Fred, who is woozy enough now that they don't trust him to walk. "Tossers --hey, my mate's got a mega gash on his leg and he needs it stitched up!" 

People are not scattering until the combination of Roger's snarling voice and wild eyes, Brian's set pale features, and Freddie sweating slightly above the stiff makeshift bandage soaked a rusty-brown catches everyone's eyes. Not to mention John standing in front of them all like an attack dog, fists opening and closing like he wants to hit something. Finally they get a nurse who checks Freddie's leg and gets him onto a table. "We've got to give him some fluids, now. Can you hear me, sir?" She pulls on gloves and takes out a pair of large scissors to cut Brian's scarf free. 

A slight smile flickers across Freddie's face. "...Yes I can, and if you're able to patch me up I will be ever so grateful to you. Eternally so."

Brian and Roger smile at each other. Freddie is always the charmer. John, however, is standing to one side and looking pale as he chews his fingernails. The nurse smiles back at the woozy rock star and pats his arm. "I will do my level best," she assures him. Cutting away the scarf and the shredded material of his tights, the nurse carefully cleans the congealed blood atop and around the lengthy gash and then gets to the wound itself. "Wow. You will definitely be needing some stitches." 

Another nurse brings saline bags and asks for Freddie's arm to start an I.V. line. Brian, who has not moved from Freddie's side, finally takes note of the second nurse. "I am so sorry," he says and moves away to give her enough room. 

"I can do this for you," the first nurse declares. "We'll need a suture kit. None of you boys are squeamish, are you? Because you'll need to wait outside if you are. I don't want a mess to clean up." 

The three other band members look at each other. 

"Nope," John swallows noisily, skin even paler but tone resolute.

"I'm good," says Roger with bravado.

"We stay together," Brian speaks up firmly. "We're his family."

Freddie's full lips lift in an infinitesimal smile at that comment and the nurse nods. "All righty then." 

She gives a localised anesthetic to make Freddie's leg numb, and takes the sterile needle from the suture kit to begin sewing up his leg. "Do you have any... _colourful_ thread?" He asks her before she begins. "I mean black is so...dull."

"Fred," Brian whispers loudly. "Just let her sew you up."

"You're still bleeding a little, for cripes' sake!" Hisses Roger.

The singer only cocks his head and raises his eyebrows. "I'm--afraid we don't carry coloured threads," the nurse responds. "We don't usually get asked for them. But I can give you a nice bright bandage to go over your stitches. We should have floral patterns, stars, and if not I can always draw something on."

"That sounds lovely," Freddie tells her with a genuine soft smile. "Thank you so much. You are too kind."

Blushing slightly now at his compliment, the nurse smiles. "Oh, it's--nothing, really," she managed whilst finishing the last of his stitches. John turns away and Roger claps his hand to his mouth and hums, trying not to heave. Brian alone remains impassive and still. "I just like to make people happy. It's hard in a hospital sometimes, but I still try."

"It's difficult in the world sometimes," Freddie pats her hand as he answers. "Believe me, I know. But I try to help people find happiness inside them." He smiles again, far brighter this time. His face has some colour back in it, courtesy of the I.V. "I think music has the power to do that."

"Oh, definitely," she agrees instantly. "And you're all done. I'll get the coloured bandages and then see if we can't get you a prescription for the pain."

"Thank you," Freddie tells her again and looks back to the others as she leaves. "I don't think she recognises us," he whispers.

"Clearly not," Roger snorts. 

"I don't know that our music reaches her particular demographic." John pipes up.

"Why not? We ought to try," Fred said. "Tomorrow, in the studio--"

"You're sitting here with a _mic stand having almost gone through your leg, Fred._ I think we should wait on going back to the studio for a day or two," Brian's voice rises in aggrieved stupefaction and he forces it back down. 

"I need my music, and the people need Queen," Freddie said as the nurse returns with a blinding white bandage on which she has drawn blue and purple stars.

"I just think," she says as she puts the bandage on. "Well, there's something about you. About all you boys." She smiles again and hands over Freddie's discharge papers. Brian accepts them. "Once that saline bag is empty you're free to go," she tells Freddie. "Good luck, Mr. Mercury. God save Queen."

Roger's mouth drops open as the nurse leaves their room. Brian looks down at his feet to hide his laughter.

"Huh," John speaks up again. "I was apparently mistaken 'bout the demographic thing. Seems like she knew who we were after all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Mr. Mercury = at this point Freddie had done away with being known by Bulsara. He has created his own identity within and as part of Queen
> 
> The genus of this chapter came from an idea in a comment--thank you so much, Gumborandy--and the members of Queen being slightly belligerent and totally protective of one of their own in a hospital is something I never knew I needed.
> 
> Freddie's calf wound is pure fiction, though I'm sure he probably got hurt onstage; sprained an ankle at the very least in one of his jumps. But he would keep on playing just like Curt Schilling of the Boston Red Sox (his pitching with a blood-soaked sock and hurt foot is where a bit of the playing/singing-with-blood-dripping-out-of-your-body idea came from.)
> 
> I have written out the fifth chapter already - inspiration is weird like that - and decided to come back and post this chapter first because it makes more sense story-wise, and I don't want to dump ALL the angst at once...yes sadly there will be some angst in this piece.


	5. Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rocker's life can be a trying one, and Freddie opens up a little about times of trouble.
> 
> I've set this chapter in the early eighties--probably around the time of Queen's "Hot Space" album, so in early/mid 1982 or thereabouts

A meteoric rise creates a lot of changes in the lifestyle of a band, and the members of Queen are no exception to this rule.

There are parties, and people to meet, and press tours, and after the parties and tours there are other parties with various and sundry types of liquor and sometimes other, more illicit substances.

***

After one of these late nights of revels, everyone else, invited and passing through, has left except for the band. Brian takes glasses and plates and utensils into the kitchen to wash them, and after cleaning and putting empty bottles by the door to take out (the next morning, probably), John claims exhaustion and retreats into the bedroom for sleep. 

They are at Freddie's place, which he has repeatedly said they must all call their own, despite the fact that Brian and John are both married now, and Roger is in a serious relationship. Their partners know they sometimes stay over with Freddie; John and Brian less often than Roger, but they are together whilst recording, of course, and during shows. They go out, work hard, party hard; rinse and repeat. 

On this particular night a sombre Freddie Mercury nurses a martini as Roger lazily blows smoke rings out of the partly-open window into the chilly air. 

"Do you ever think about what it means to be alone, Roger?" Freddie asks his blond friend, leaning to one side and pulling at the neck of his rose-coloured silk robe with one long graceful hand. 

Roger ceases blowing smoke and lifts up his head, cocking his face and sweeping the hand holding his half-smoked cigarette from side to side, indicating the room they sit in as well as the whole flat. "...There were just loads of people here, Freddie," he replies. "But they've all gotta go home SOMEtime."

"I know that, dear," the singer's lips lift and he chuckles slightly. "And you, of course, are never alone, but...there are dark spaces." His voice quiets and he sniffs, wiping a finger beneath his nose. "When someone doesn't belong -- you know what, never mind. I was being rhetorical."

Roger Taylor leans forward and snuffs out his cigarette as he stands up and with his swinging gait moves to stand beside his friend. The singer sips his drink and shifts his gaze away as Roger clears his throat and bends down to crouch on his heels beside Freddie's low chair. "What d'you mean, Fred?" He asks, voice also quiet. He gets the feeling that the question Freddie had was not, in fact, rhetorical. "I get around with people, sure, but so do you." He nudges his friend in the ribs playfully, but his joking yet congratulatory, complimentary smile dies as Freddie remains serious. He seems pale; diminished, almost. So unlike his usual boisterous and energetic self. 

Shifting to sit cross-legged, Roger leans his head against the other's shoulder in an attempt at comfort, feeling the cool smoothness of silk slide against his cheek. "What's on your mind, my lovely legend?" He murmurs. It is a phrase he has used with Freddie ever since he heard the man toss off once that he wasn't going to be a simply a star, but a legend. Normally he is joking as he says it, poking fun, but this time the tone Roger speaks in is a sincere, gentle, earnest one. 

Freddie relaxes into his friend's side just a little. "Being alone is -- not belonging to anyone, really," he is now speaking slowly "so how could I--how could any of us--be lonely? We're 'Her Majesty, Queen', loved and adored by the entire world! You and the boys have wives, children ..." For a moment his free arm shoots out and his face lights up in typical Freddie fashion. But then he lowers the limb and croaks out "Yet I am lonely, for I have no one." His hand shakes as he gulps down the rest of his drink and now extends his other arm to set the long-stemmed drink article down on the art-deco table before him, but his hand shudders and the glass drops to shatter on the floor. "Oh--" Freddie lifts both of his hands helplessly before dropping to his knees as if to scoop up the shards of glass with his bare hands. 

Roger whirls and grabs hold of the other's wrists to stop him. "BRIAN! We need the dustpan!" The drummer calls.

"One minute!" Brian yells back. "Finishing this dish!"

"Hurry up!" Roger barks and ducks his head to look closely at Freddie's face as the other man's lip trembles. His eyes are watery and red, and the smell wafting off him... Roger inquires in concern, "How much-- how high--" he stops that line of questioning and decides to play it safe with the wording: "--how wasted _are_ you, Freddie?"

The guy has been known to snort and smoke quite a bit, along with drinking. It occurs now to Roger that he, they all, ought to keep an eye on him, to be worried. Freddie licks his lips and lifts his brown eyes, limpid pools, to Roger's light ones. He half-heartedly attempts a chuckle, though to the drummer's ears it sounds more like a sob. "... Extraordinarily, darling," he mumbles.

Roger grunts. "Alright, up you get, c'mon." He pulls Fred to his feet as Brian comes in with a broom held in one hand and a large dustpan in the other. Soap bubbles are caught in the curly mop of hair atop his dark head; the curls bob and a few bubbles pop as he takes in the sight of Roger holding onto Freddie's forearms and of the singer's bare feet sticking out beneath his bright kimono, surrounded by glittering pieces like diamonds or clear crystal. 

The guitarist stoops and begins swiftly brushing glass shards away from Fred's feet. "Here we go," Roger puts his arms completely around Freddie now and Brian looks up, his gaze following them and widening with worry at the scratchiness of Roger's tone, different from his usual high-pitched huskiness. What had Fred said to him? 

Hugging Freddie close to his chest, "Watch your feet," the drummer cautions, and Fred -- in a movement that nearly over balances his friend -- leaps and wraps his legs around Roger's middle. Roger steps back from the glass with a slight stumble but resituates himself, putting one arm underneath Freddie's leg to hold on to and carry him someplace more comfortable. "... You've got to know something, Fred," the drummer intones as he holds the other close.

"And what is that, Roger dear?" The other smacks his lips and lifts his chin with typical Freddie bravura, trying his best to lighten up things. 

But Roger meets his eyes without any humour in his face, smothered or otherwise. He is deadly serious. "--You belong to us. Brian, Deacy, and me. We love you. So when you're with us-- or whenever you think...when you're in some sort of dark space, or whatever-- you don't have to feel alone." The suave blond is uncharacteristically struggling for words. 

Brian, though he wasn't present for the entirety of the conversation, now believes he's got the gist. Having swept up all the glass, he comes over and rubs his free hand over the singer's short hair -- Fred had gotten it cut after their last tour in America, and was growing a mustache to boot, but he is still their beloved Freddie so they don't care. He's got his own style. "You're the soul of Queen, Fred," the curly-haired musician says gently. "We wouldn't even _be_ Queen without you." 

Roger looks to him gratefully as Freddie brightens and says "You're quite right. I did a fantastic job of naming us, didn't I?"

The drummer smiles as Brian pats Fred on the back and rests an elbow briefly on Roger's shoulder. "You most certainly did."

"Veronica...," John mumbles, half-asleep as Roger easily carries Freddie into his bedroom and lays him down beside Deacon whilst Brian dumps the shattered glass into the bin by the front door and puts the remaining dishes away.

"I'll gladly be your Veronica tonight, Deacy," murmurs Freddie with cheek. 

John scoots close and buries his head against the singer's neck before grumbling "Mmph. Your hair's too short." Yet he remains curled up next to Freddie anyway. "But you're nice 'n warm." Roger huffs out a quiet chuckle as John falls back asleep immediately after vocalising that. 

The drummer suggests for Freddie to scoot over so he can crawl into bed on the singer's other side. As he climbs in and pulls the blanket over and across to cover all three of them, Freddie rests his head on Roger's chest with a grateful "G'night, and thank you, darling."

Roger presses his lips to the top of Freddie's head and holds him close, but says nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Brian and John are both married now, and Roger is in a serious relationship = Brian married Christine (Chrissie) Mullen in 1974, John tied the knot with Veronica Tetzlaff in January of '75 (and they're still together, go Deacy!), and Roger got together with Dominique Swain in '77 I believe it was. 
> 
> *kimono = after the boys' early tour in Japan, Freddie grew infatuated with that country's styles and art. He wore a kimono onstage and apparently - I personally am fascinated by and appreciative of this - bought himself some pieces of Japanese art.


	6. Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cue an unforgettable performance.

The members of Queen don't know what to think when they get the call about Live Aid.

Well, actually they are pretty sure they _do_ \--after the fiasco of breaking a ban to do a show, the band feels marginalised at home in Britain and across Europe. They are dinosaurs who have been around for more than ten years; surely, Queen's reign is ending. 

They have been ousted from American soil to boot, after the controversy surrounding 'I Want To Break Free' and its music video as well as the critical failure of their ninth studio album on the continent across the pond. But the organiser of Live Aid calls personally and tells their manager "It's going to be one hell of a show". So they agree, and set themselves up to do rehearsals for a twenty-minute set.

***

And boy, do they need the rehearsal-- they hadn't played together for a bit; after the upheaval and other parts of life, Freddie had said he didn't know what Queen stood for, so they went their separate ways for a while. And now, his vocal cords aren't in the best working order. 

"What's wrong, Fred?" Roger asks worriedly as the singer's voice breaks flatly on one of the higher notes in 'Radio Ga Ga' and he hunches forward, coughing. Brian stops playing and comes over to him, cupping a hand round the back of his neck, and John silently offers a glass of clear liquid.

"Vodka, darling. Drink it down, mm?" Freddie says and recalls a time when he'd told Deacy the same thing after a far more physical blow. John's face looks like he remembers it too as he nods and pats the singer on the arm. Down the hatch Freddie tips the drink and sighs. "Ahhh, that does it. I've got a little ...tickle in my throat." He swallows and spins one finger around, turning to face the others. Brian squeezes him gently and lets go as Fred offers a seemingly tired smile. His facial features do seem a little drawn-- but maybe Brian is only imagining it. "The doctor says my vocal cords are inflamed, and strongly advised against me singing." 

Roger gasps. "Then what the hell are you _doing??_ "

"Don't be so dramatic, darling. I simply told him that as long as there is breath in my body I am going to sing." Freddie smiles and rubs a hand down the skin of his neck, massaging it. "Just give me a little time to get these bitches in order, and we'll blow the roof off of Wembley stadium."

"... That's going to be quite difficult since Wembley hasn't got a roof," intones John.

Brian lets out a cathartic laugh, as his eyes had been smarting with tears unshed in his worry about Freddie. "He's right, it doesn't."

"Then we'll have to pray to God it doesn't rain. For once in the history of an English midsummer. Like that's going to happen," grumbles Roger.

"... It'll either be dry as high noon in the Sahara or pissing down."

"Well at least the ticket holders would get to have a free shower then. More than can be said for the people we're doing this for."

"Oh, don't be so negative either!" Freddie chided them all, twirling around in ecstasy and pumping his fists, eyes bright with excitement. "This is going to be a historic occasion, I can feel it!"

***

Freddie was right; it was going to be a big day, one of the biggest in rock and roll history. Every band -- from Led Zeppelin and REO Speedwagon to Madonna and U2 -- would have twenty minutes to perform, no more, no less. 

Queen rehearsed at the Shaw Theatre in London for three days in order to prepare. Freddie's vocals remain a bit scratchy but Roger backs him up and he is able to rework his parts to meld melody and harmony rather than singing the straight, simple melodic playback as is on the band's records. He is harmonising with his original musical notes, as it were. Rog and Brian --with John backing them up-- can easily hold down the original melodies for him.

And he and Brian are going to get to sing their little song; it's a pet project, really, that they had added to _The Works_ album and which ended up being perfect for Live Aid in sentiment and lyric. The boys are interviewed on their final rehearsal day in Shaw Theatre and get asked about the piece.

"You tell 'em," Freddie said, nudging Brian's shoulder. "All I know 's when we sing it, Roger and John will get to go and have a drink or something." Roger grins broadly as John nods in silence. 

Brian chuckles. "Actually it was -- this song works perfectly for Live Aid but it wasn't written for it. We had a little extra space on our album and so Fred and I sat down and wrote this little thing. The crisis in Africa was on our minds, and so we're excited to do it. It's got a good message, I think."

"That's great. Do you still get excited for live shows like this?"

All four men nod enthusiastically, expressions alight.

"Oh yes."

"Definitely!"

"Mm-hm."

"It's a thrill, darling."

"And for once the money will be going where it should be," Brian says. 

"The most important thing to us is that we're playing and we're having fun fooling around," Freddie said, taking a drag on a cigarette. 

"Right. And the real question is, can we go out and just _play_ without all our fancy costumes and pyrotechnics? So we're going to do that."

***

July 15th, 1985 dawned bright and clear.

The sky above Wembley Stadium was a high light blue, the colour of a robin's egg. It is the kind of sky where a few wisps of cloud seem like puffs of cotton at the farthest edges of one's vision. But those clouds move naught in the wind, which on that day was nothing more than a slight breeze as the sun began beating down on the thousands of people standing in the roofless stadium.

A lot of the early acts are not going so well-- the sound is poor, too quiet, and the layout of the stadium causes a lot of reverb that can work against a group if not coupled with loud-enough sound equipment. And, though no one would begrudge any of the stars for this, at least not since they took time out of their schedules to participate, the music quality isn't the best. Seems like most of the groups skipped out on rehearsing for this show. 

The crowd seems perfectly content, though no one is screaming in overwhelmed excitement thus far. And there has not been much money coming in from people watching on television. A few pounds at most. The audience at Wembley did their bit by purchasing tickets, but no support from the watchers at home equals no money outside those ticket sales for the African people who could really really use it, and the organiser is becoming antsy and impatient as well as aggrieved. What is everyone playing at?

And then he hears a sound, louder than all the rest; certainly clearer and more polished than the group who had just left the stage. The crowd has started cheering as a piano piece cuts through the air like a bell. "Who has put that bloody lovely sound together?" He whirls and sees that it is Queen.

With help from their manager, who had surreptitiously raised the volume on all of the sound equipment as the boys came out to start their set, Queen is rocking the house as Freddie sings.

They had gone in naked, like-- Brian admitted it. "We haven't got any of our own lights or sound equipment, lads," he'd reminded the others backstage. Roger had been shaking out his shoulders, loosening his arms as he clenched his drumsticks tightly. Deacy was pale, seemed truly nervous; his shirt was already almost soaked through with sweat, though no one in the crowd was going to notice that. 

Freddie, however, was bouncing in place, his features calm and anticipatory and at the same time far away. "We can do this, darlings," he said, turning back to them all, his beloved band, his _family_. In that moment looking at the three of them, he feels as though he can take on the world. "We can do anything together. Are you ready?" 

Roger's face is set. John lets out a pent-up whistling breath and does his best to nod. Brian reaches out and rubs the bassist's shoulders with his long-fingered hand, and with a half-smile appearing behind his lengthy hair, the guitarist intones --on behalf of all four of them, really-- "Ready, Freddie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *the fiasco of breaking a ban = the UN banned any connections, travels, or other exports to South Africa during the apartheid. Queen, however, did a show there and earned some scorn for it.
> 
> *I don't know what the United States' problem was, but MTV banned Queen's video for the song 'I Want to Break Free' because of indecency, etc. Even though dressing in drag (Roger's idea bless him) was only meant as a nod to an old comedic British television show. Plus, the dressing in drag also happened to work with the message of the song (I believe). Maybe the video execs didn't have a sense of humour. In any case, that coupled with the failure of the _Hot Space_ album effectively kept Queen off the American continent.
> 
> *the doctor says my vocal cords are inflamed = this was true, and Freddie was strongly advised not to sing in order to keep his voice safe from the possiblity of the cords being permanently damaged. Naturally, he decided to sing anyway.
> 
> * "...since Wembley hasn't got a roof," "He's right, it doesn't" = my little nod to the film Bohemian Rhapsody :D
> 
> *The pre-Live Aid interview in Shaw Theatre actually occurred and is on YouTube; I did my best to use the band members' actual dialogue from it when possible to blend into the flow of my story. Readers may notice some quotes occurring out of order. This is purposeful, and hopefully forgivable.
> 
> Holy crap, it's LIVE AID GUYS
> 
> If you want to read more about the show itself, please leave a comment and let me know :) As always, the show must go on!


	7. Going On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is two years after Live Aid and the show is going on. This chapter begins in 1987, so the band is working on _The Miracle_ album and doing some recording for _Innuendo_ as well. Freddie has some shocking -- if not entirely unexpected -- news to tell.
> 
> Warning for depression experienced in this chapter, death, family troubles, and references to HIV/AIDS
> 
> (Comments are always appreciated.)

After something like Live Aid, how can things go on? With more tours and albums, of course; Queen has a reign to continue after all. 

And therefore troubles occur in paradise.

***

Brian May is not doing so well. 

Fred and Roger both are out til all hours carousing; yet Freddie has been appearing wan far more often-- not to mention sweaty and thinner, which is worrying. 

Brian is trying to keep in touch with his wife and kids --Louisa's lost a tooth, Jimmy just got into marching band, and Emily Ruth is a ball of energy. His wife had called the other night, to talk about the kids, he thought--but then she'd dropped the bombshell that his father was feeling poorly. "We need to talk, Brian," she said-- and how she had said it, the way her voice caught on the word 'talk', he does not want to open and go through that door, cowardly as that is. He hates himself for it, but he's tried to work through the tough times thus far. He does not want, cannot bear to lose anyone in his family.

But Freddie tells the band one day in the studio, after he'd gotten incredibly out of breath whilst singing the title number of their current album, "...You probably realise what my problem is," he said. "I've got it. AIDS." The singer continues speaking to cover the gasps. John's eyes are wide, face white; his hand goes over his mouth. Roger stands rigid, eyes growing wet and Brian feels like he cannot breathe. "Well, that's it and I don't want it to make a difference, I don't want it to be known, I don't want to talk about it. I just want to get on and work until I fucking well drop --I'd like you to support me in this."

"Fred... I'm so sorry," Brian tried, light eyes full of agony. His beloved, strong friend, whose very soul seemed to be made from adamantine. Though he had noticed Fred seeming a bit paler, more tired, he never honestly thought how serious the sickness could be. 

Freddie's deep brown eyes rest warmly but firmly now on his. "Brian, don't. I love you, but please don't make a fuss. I just want to work." He rolls his lips over his teeth, pressing a hand to his chest and reaching out. "... I just want to keep making music." Roger lets out a little sound that might be a chuckle or a sob as Freddie now claps his hands together loud enough to make them all jump. "Let's get to it!"

And so they do. And it is wonderful, the only positive thing Brian has to hold on to now that his father is gone. It had been sudden; he hadn't felt well one day, the day Chrissie called; and the next...he was dead. And Christine had gotten that talk she wanted, and decided to leave with the kids. "We just--we aren't the same people anymore." She told him, and Brian felt like he was drowning, losing himself. _I don't know that I truly EXIST anymore. Behind my face, there's --nothing._

He doesn't want to put anything else onto the lads, though; particularly Fred, who is already downing vodka like it's water and singing until he drops from exhaustion. "I'll fucking do it, darling," he said before stepping up to the mic and singing 'The Show Must Go On', a song written in attempt to combat the pain of possibly losing him; of dealing with what eventually takes us all away. 

_"Inside my heart is aching, my makeup may be flaking, but my smile --still stays on. The show must go on, yeah yeah!"_

Brian wishes he believed that. Freddie is still so blasted positive, doing the blooming song in ONE take, for God's sake. And Brian cannot even manage to leave his chair. Pathetic. He can't even muster the strength, when Freddie is getting so thin, and has those horrid purple blotches on his face some days-- "Don't look so ghastly, dears!" He said to them all when he came in covered with the lesions. "Or I'll certainly have to become offended and cloister myself in a tower, alone." 

John had lifted his lips then, scrunching them a bit and walking around Freddie inspecting him. "It's not even that bad," the bassist said dryly. "You just look like you've got a magnificent set of hickies. Everywhere." He smirks. "Bit like Roger."

"Watch it, John," Rog had said. And then "... I'll do some makeup for you," he offered. "Be a nice pallette for shading." 

"Why thank you, darling," Freddie had leant over and kissed Roger's cheek. "I'll look forward to that." He wraps his arms around both the bassist's and drummer's shoulders, now turning to Brian, who loomed in the corner of the room, eyes telegraphing pain that he tamped down, swallowed. 

"You'd be the belle of any ball, Fred," the guitarist croaked out. 

Freddie gives a flourishing little bow, but notices Brian's expression nevertheless. Roger's eyebrows draw together.

"You'd even upstage Roger at this point," John speaks up cheerfully, trying to keep things light as the drummer had stepped forward, opening his mouth to say something to Brian that the guitarist doesn't know if he can take. He feels like a pane of glass on the verge of breaking, and Deacy sees it. Good ol' John. Despite the fact he might be about to piss Roger off.... "... Though honestly that's not hard."

Roger whips his head around and stares the bassist down. "ExCUSE me?" He growls. "Did you just say Fred was prettier than me, John Deacon?"

"Oh don't worry, darling, you're certainly just as fabulous," Fred smiles and coughs, dramatically drawing one arm across his mouth and turning his shuddering hacks into a dance. No one will ever, ever know how he does that. So generous and glorious and shining, even when in pain. Oh, how Brian envies him, and feels a black hole in his heart at that feeling. "Let's get to it, then."

_"But my smile still stays on...."_

***

After that performance and playback, Freddie does his best not to wilt, but everyone senses him fading. He is exhausted, and rightfully so; that performance kicked everything else they'd done out of the way and cemented itself at the top for sheer unadulterated _brilliance_.

Everyone is enthralled, but Brian cannot muster the strength to leave his chair, and Roger notices that. 

John was ready to leave and drop Fred off at home and the drummer had been going with them, but he now kneels in front of his lanky friend. "Brian," he utters, tone almost a caress as he puts a hand on the guitarist's knee. "What is it, mate? What's going on with you?"

He had noticed Brian's increasing isolation; had accepted it, figured it had to do with his worry over Freddie-- they were all worried constantly about him now, despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that he didn't want to discuss what was going on with him. But this...now Roger feels there is something else going on with Brian, something more. And his worries are not assauged in the slightest when Bri inhales, light eyes seeming abstracted and broken. 

A lump fills the drummer's throat and an icy weight settles into his chest, clenching tightly around his heart as Brian speaks heavily, "it's nothing, Rogie. I'm just--"

"--If you tell me you're 'just fine', I will personally pick up your guitar and beat you with it. _What's wrong?_ "

Brian's hands close convulsively around his Old Lady and John whistles long and low at Roger's threat. Fred seems half out of it, but his eyes are trained lovingly on the tall guitarist nonetheless.

Roger has stood up now. "Are you stressed?" He asks. "If you are, I'd understand --hell, we're all four struggling right now! But you've been here, just SITTING, for the entirety of this album. It's--" his high voice cracks and wobbles but doesn't quite break. Rog is too tough for that. But his eyes are haunted, protective, keen. He needs to know what is going on with Brian. "--it's worriesome, alright? So just TELL us, whatever it is!"

"And if you're worrying about me, don't, darling," Freddie puts in. "I'm having the time of my life making this album with you wonderful, lovely boys." He beams, almost choking up but not quite--his eyes grow shiny. "So thank you for doing this. It means the world to me."

Brian manages a thin smile as John ducks his head and rubs Freddie's back. Roger reaches sideways to catch hold of the singer's arm, but refuses to take his eyes off Brian.

So he is the one who most clearly sees Brian's breath hitch. His adam's apple bobs and the tall dear science-minded and ever stable fellow nearly goes to pieces before their eyes. 

"Thank you," Brian whispers, voice failing. Roger tenses as Fred and Deacy exchange glances. Brian now continues louder, "... I'm glad. I'm glad to help you, Freddie, truly." His face now crumples and his fingers shake as he covers his mouth and chin, letting out a high-pitched whimper that begets an onslaught of sobs. "It's just--so hard. We're--we're losing you, and I lost my father, and Chrissie...oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't want to do this, I'm not--just not in the best place, but it's... it's nothing."

"Brian," John says so quietly, that one word so gentle and loving and full of remonstration all at once. "Don't be daft. We're here to help you, always." 

Freddie, though pale and exhausted, goes to Brian's side with the bassist's help. Brian bows his head and shakes it, curls falling over his face and shoulders in a midnight tangle. Fred leans in and puts a hand on the other's shaking shoulder. John is behind him, arm resting against Brian's neck and fingers threading through his hair, combing it back and massaging the guitarist's scalp. 

Roger has gotten down on his knees again and wraps his arms securely around his busom friend without another word. Brian's face falls into Roger's right shoulder and the drummer rubs circles on his shuddering back. 

"It's okay, Bri. We're here. We're all here if -- when you're good to talk."

"And we aren't going anywhere, darling." Freddie squeezes Brian's shoulder before turning his face away to stifle a chest-racking cough. 

The guitarist is snapped out of his sobbing as he hears Freddie suck in a shaky breath. His head shoots upward as tears glaze his thin cheeks. "Fred, I'm so stupid, I'm so sorry--we've got to get you home!"

Freddie clucks and cups his right hand around the face of this utterly impossible man that he adores and who has taught him so much. "I told you that we're -- that _I'm_ not going anywhere, Brian, my love. Not until you're well."

Brian's eyes close for the briefest of instants and he brushes Freddie's palm with his lips before letting go of Roger with one arm and pulling the singer into their hug as John rests his head atop the guitarist's and encircles his lanky form with strong arms. 

Brian says what they have all felt from the very first and will continue to feel forever: "Love you, Fred."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"You probably realise what my problem is," he said [...] "Well, that's it and I don't want it to make a difference, I don't want it to be known, I don't want to talk about it. I just want to get on and work until I fucking well drop --I'd like you to support me in this." = this quote is what Roger Taylor told LiFE Magazine that Freddie said to them, verbatim. The man just wouldn't quit, and that is so incredibly admirable to me.
> 
> *now that his father is gone = Brian's father did pass away and his marriage broke up during this time. He became incredibly depressed, and I find it so inspiring that this man was able to keep on with the help of his beloved bandmates and friends.
> 
> *'The Show Must Go On' = Freddie famously sang this song in one take. The band says that their album _Innuendo_ was created on "borrowed time", so I had them record this song a bit early because it fit so well with the emotions in this chapter of the story.


	8. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is November 24th, 1991 and Roger learns of Freddie's death.
> 
> Warning for description of intense emotional distress in response to death. Freddie's demise is not shown but extensively talked of so WARNING HERE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original iteration of this chapter was a question about whether my readers were comfortable reading about Freddie's death. But someone (thank you, Bemywiggins) asked me to add this and thus, it they have received :)
> 
> This chapter broke my heart to write but at the same time I needed to do it. Feel free to let me know what you think. <3

_"Don't bother coming."_

Roger Taylor doesn't simply hear those words but he feels them like an icy deluge coating his entire being, sending not shivers but shudders down his spine and making him feel sick. He knew that this was coming; thought he had prepared himself for it. Deacy and Bri knew too. 

But here he is, feet cramping on the cobblestones as he stands and stares at the house. Freddie's house. 

Fred had been stuck in there for the last month, and every single blood-sucking parasite from the press was camped outside. Still are, waiting for glimpses of the fabulous Freddie Mercury and how far he had fallen. No. Fuck them. Fuck them all--Fred had been elevated, glowing; so determined and shining so bright and working so blasted HARD--even in their last recording session his voice was clear as a bell.

"I'm feeling a little tired now. I'll finish it next time." That was what he said after singing the midsection of 'Mother Love'. He'd stopped and looked pleadingly at Brian. And Brian had nodded.

"Sure, Fred. Take all the time you need to rest, we'll be here." Freddie had smiled then and blown a kiss to them all before turning and leaving them there. 

He hadn't come back in, hadn't been able to; so Roger is going to him.

 _"Don't bother coming, Roger. He's gone."_

These are the days of our lives... Roger had written that song, played drums so softly, as an attempt at comfort for Freddie. For them all. True to their word, the band did not talk about Fred's diagnosis but kept on playing and recording and working. It was killing them all not to talk it out, particularly Brian, Mr. I-need-to-have-a-philosophical-scientific-discussion-about-everything May. No, not killing, abysmal choice of words, Roger. Fuck. But it was so hard seeing someone as joyous and charismatic, so loving and generous and full of LIFE as Freddie Mercury wasting away.

And Roger is right here now, so close, but it was all for nothing. He's gone. Freddie is gone, and Roger wasn't even able to say goodbye to the man he loved so much, to whom he could tell absolutely anything, everything; the man whose voice was a constant source of joy and pleasure and excitement, who lit up every single room that he walked into and sang and spoke with his angelic voice for all of those who were voiceless. Oh, Freddie my darling, my dear. _Freddie, I'm so sorry._

Roger feels cold all over. He feels like his very voice is gone. More than his voice, his essence is currently hanging by a thread. His strength has fled from him too, but he cannot let that stand. He cannot let those news vultures see him break and know what is happening. He has to be strong, for Freddie. So hating himself, hating everything; feeling the acrid acidic taste of bile rising and burning in his throat, Roger turns sharply about and stalks across the street with robotic movements in order to use a pay phone. He presses the numbers on the dial pad woodenly and drops pence coins into the slot without looking. 

After a first and then a second ring he hears the gentle voice of Brian: "Yes, hello? Brian May speaking."

Roger opens his mouth but no sound comes out. For a second he thinks his voice has truly failed him. His heart physically HURTS it is beating so hard. But he has to speak, has to say it. Brian deserves to know. Deserves to hear this from Roger after all they have been through together, and not from the ruddy press once the rat bastards find out. He coughs and sucks in air, feeling the November chill slice through his throat like a knife, and manages to speak at last: "Bri, it's Roger."

The tears are coming now, thick and fast; rendering his vision opaque and his voice choked and thick as he clutches onto the phone as though it is a lifeline. Stupid, useless. Too late now. "... Freddie's dead, Brian. He's gone."

There is nothing on the line and then a whispered, whimpered "No," from Brian. His voice begins rising. "Are you sure?"

Roger's voice bursts out of him with a tone high and shrill as a whistling teakettle. "Of COURSE I'm sure, you bastard, I'm here in front of his _house_..." Roger's voice completely breaks. His hands shake and the phone is jittering, crashing against its cradle as he leans his head against it. "I was right outside, walking up," he spat. "I got the call and I came--I made it here--" all restraint is gone and he's sobbing, gasping, "but I was _too fucking late!_ "

"Oh, Roger--" Brian is losing it too now on the other end of the line, but he manages to say "--stay there, okay? Just stay put, Rogie. I'm coming." And then "...We have to tell John."

John. _Deacy. Oh, fuck._ That is when Roger goes boneless, his knees giving way as he drops arse-first onto the sidewalk below the payphone. So sharply that he's certain to have a bruise tomorrow but he does not care. How close John and Freddie were; so having to tell Deacy, again to say those horrid words-- "Brian, I can't. I can't do it." Roger feels lower than dirt, than pond scum; he knows that he is an absolute fucking coward but he cannot do it. He cannot break Freddie's best friend's heart. 

There is silence over the phone line save for a low buzzing, and then Brian's voice --aching, compassionate, broken but so incredibly strong at the same time-- says "I know. I'll do it, Roger. I will tell him." Roger nods dumbly even though Brian cannot see him. Again Bri says "Stay there," in a rising panic.

Roger lets out a grunt and hangs up, pressing his forehead against his bent knees with a muttered "Where else am I gonna go?"

***

"We're not-- _I'm_ not going anywhere, Brian, my love. Not until you're well." 

Brian hears those loving words again, and if he stands still and closes his eyes, he can feel Fred's hand gently cupping the side of his face. But then he opens up his eyes again and his friend is still gone. Fuck.

_Fuck you, Freddie Mercury--you lied to me._

That isn't fair, of course. Brian knows it and he will beat himself up over it for a long time, but now he is flying out of his house and running to Roger. The emotionless sound of Rog's final sentence to him as he'd hung up the phone struck something within Brian. He knows Roger; knows he is so much less anxious and not emotional in the way that Brian is. He is so much stronger and more resilient, but Roger's soul brother-- _their_ soul brother is dead, and Brian has to be there for him.

Besides, he does not think he can handle telling Deacy about Freddie alone.

Brian gets out of the cab he had taken to the street across from Freddie's place, pays the driver, and tightens his scarf around his neck before flipping up the collar of his long black trench. His eyes scan Fred's house and the surrounding vicinity, and at first he is panicked, heart rising into his throat when he does not instantly spot his friend.

But there is a hunched and huddled figure seated on the curbside smoking a cigarette. Brian strides up to stand beside the figure, heart leaping a little with relief. Roger, for that is who it is, has his ever-present sunglasses stuffed in the breast pocket of his coat. His first movement is to crush out the still-lit, mostly unsmoked cigarette he had been holding onto the ground without even finishing his current drag. This is bad. Rog always, ALWAYS finished his cigarettes. He genuinely enjoyed smoking, and would mercilessly tease Brian for his own aversion to it. "Are you _quite_ certain you're a real rock star?" The drummer had asked him once a long time ago, blowing carcinogens into the air dramatically. "Rock stars bloody smoke!!!" 

Now, though, Roger sniffs hard and drops his cig, crushing it out beneath his left shoe without even being asked. And he is not wearing his glasses to hide his eyes and therefore his near-sightedness. His eyes are rimmed with red and he rubs his left hand fiercely beneath his nose. More tears start to flow as Brian stops next to him. Roger not being vain over his looks and choosing of his own accord not to smoke is honestly one of the worst possible sights for Brian to see; it is so unlike his friend. Brian hunkers down, dropping his right hand onto Roger's left shoulder. "Rog, thank god you're still here," he murmurs.

"Didn't have anywhere to go," Roger grunts. "I cleared my whole day so that I could-- stay with Fred." His voice wobbles and tears begin falling faster down his cheeks. Roger bows his head over his knees, burying his face in the crook of his elbow.

Brian sits down all the way, tucking his coat underneath his body and wrapping his arm around Roger's shoulders. The guitarist's fingers tremble against his lips as he presses his free hand to his face. Roger falls into Brian's embrace and presses his face against the side of his torso. Brian is thin, so much thinner than usual, but Roger cannot find it in him to make a crack about that. Brian turns his head and rests his chin atop Roger's soft hair, rubbing his friend's side, which is frigid. 

"...You could've gone into a pub or something, Rog," Brian said. 

Roger stiffens and jerks away, blue and red warring in his face as his eyes widen and his cheeks redden with betrayal. "What, did you think I was going to just--stroll into some tavern for a drink when Fred--because he's gone?! I'm not going to just DRINK away my fucking grief, Brian!"

Bri instantly wants to kick himself. He had not even thought about how those words would sound. "I'm so sorry, Roger, I--"

"No, Bri, don't. Just shut up." Roger lifts a hand to stop his friend from speaking. Brian's lips twitch and he lowers his head.

Roger's eyes are puffy and so full of sorrow that they appear as thin panes of glass behind which a torrent waits to engulf everything in its path. Those eyes apologise without words, and Brian leans his forehead briefly against Roger's in understanding and thankfulness. They are in this together, and that means... oh, how he hopes that means they will be able to make it through this life without Freddie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *the words "Don't bother coming, he's gone" were apparently actually said to Roger. He was on the way to visit Freddie when he died. 
> 
> His literal closeness to the house and calling Brian on a payphone are my own inventions based on what I think Roger would need to do. Having dealt with loss myself, I had that same feeling of losing myself and not knowing where to go.
> 
> *every single blood-sucking parasite from the press was camped outside = I watched an interview conducted a week after Freddie's death where Brian and Roger talked about this. Those poor, dear men watching their friend being hounded, and how wonderfully brave Freddie was to deal with all of that crap
> 
> *he cannot break Freddie's best friend's heart = Queen is of course a family, but I've always heard that there was an especially close connection between Freddie and John, so that is what this phrase alludes to
> 
> *he is so much stronger and more resilient = sadly I think that Brian, with his struggles with depression, might very well have believed the others, like Roger, were stronger than he. But they all three simply showed and dealt with their grief in different ways, poor boys
> 
> *"Just shut up" = a little reference to an interview with Roger and Brian in 1982 where Brian got blustery, Roger told him to shut up, and they looked at one another and communicated without needing words

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Queen for being a wondrous band of unique and inspiring human beings. I own nothing but my words. My information about Freddie choosing the band's name, Roger (and Brian) not liking it initially, and how John (and Roger) auditioned to be in the band comes from LIFE magazine and its spread on Queen and Bohemian Rhapsody, as I mentioned in my summary. The information about working at the Trident studio in its off hours and recording with twenty-four tracks also came from that article. Freddie's words about not belonging to anyone come from the article as well. 
> 
> I love comments, and thank you for reading :)


End file.
